


All my tomorrows

by izazov



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3681597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izazov/pseuds/izazov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor is not a man of many regrets, but there is not a day that goes by that he does not regret playing his brother’s game.<br/>Sequel to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/3633162/">Only tomorrow leads my way</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Strong legs wrap around his waist – pulling him deeper into the scorching, tight heat of the body underneath and keeping him there. If he had energy to spare, Thor would have laughed – like there is any other place he would rather be, now or ever – but as it is, he merely snaps his hips harder, and leans toward the pale expanse of a neck, arched invitingly, and closes his lips over the pulse point. It earns him a low, throaty chuckle, but it quickly dissolves into a moan when Thor wraps his hand around the straining length of arousal trapped between their bodies._

_Fingers of his other hand are digging bruises into the other man’s hip, and there are already at least dozen bite marks and dark bruises marring the pale skin Thor has tasted and grown addicted to, but it is not enough. Not nearly enough. If he could, Thor would cover every inch of it with bruises matching his fingers and teeth, to stake his claim, from this moment until the day the World Tree turns to ash and The Nine Realms crumble into nothingness._

_Entire world narrows down to the where they are joined, to where strong fingers are holding onto his shoulders with a sort of desperation matching Thor’s own, the sound of half-choked moans mixing with his low grunts and the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh._

_Thor wishes he could prolong this, slow down and keep it gentle and languid, but he cannot. He drives deep into the lithe body beneath his own, his thrust hard and relentless, but no matter how deep he is, it never is enough._

_Thor feels pressure building low in his belly, like tidal wave, his thrusts growing sharp and erratic. He is close, but he wants to make the other come before him, to feel his body clenching around him. He quickens his strokes along the other’s cock, his hips snapping with almost violent force. It takes four firm tugs and the other man is coming, spilling over Thor’s fist with a wrecked moan in the shape of Thor’s name._

_Thor’s thrusts reach almost violent force, and Thor knows he will not be able to hold off for long. Pushing himself up on his elbow, he looks down at the face he knows better than his own, the twinkle of mischief even now present in the green eyes, half closed in the aftermath of his orgasm, a shadow of that infuriating smirk curving his lips. Thor wants to taste it, with urgency that steals his breath. He leans down, so close to capture that wicked mouth with his own…_

And then he wakes up. Achingly hard.

A cry of despair and frustration tears from his throat, his chest rising and falling with harsh, panting breaths. Grabbing the furs, Thor tosses them down on the ground, his fingers closing around his arousal, his eyes fluttering closed. When the dreams first started – after that wretched feats and his ill-conceived acceptance of Loki’s proposal of playing a game – Thor tried to ignore his erection, willing it away, but it soon proved futile, making his mood volatile, frustration and lust coiled just underneath his skin. 

The images from his dream flash behind his closed eyelids – Loki’s body arching underneath his own, Loki’s fingers wrapped around Thor’s cock, Loki’s mouth open around a moan – and it takes but a few firm tugs and he is spilling into his fists and onto his stomach, copper flooding his mouth from where he is biting hard his bottom lip, but it keeps him from crying out his brother’s name.

Loki, Loki, Loki, _Loki._

It is like there is a sickness inside his blood. Dark and twisted hunger focused on his brother, need which with every passing day grows stronger and more demanding, slowly but surely chipping away Thor’s already tenuous control.

Thor has never been prone to regret and wishful thinking, but now there is not a day that he does not wish to go back to that night and stop himself from playing his brother’s game. To stop himself from starting on a path which led him to standing frozen on the spot, while lust raged inside him, his fingers itching for the feel of his brother’s skin. That is what he wishes when guilt and self-disgust become too heavy a burden, but most of the time he wishes he had not stayed still, petrified with shock and horror when Loki turned and left Thor on the balcony, staring at Loki’s retreating back until he saw nothing, his heartbeat a deafening roar in his ears. He wishes he had reached out and tugged Loki back, pushed him against the cold marble and took him right then and there.

As he does almost every night since then in his dreams, and no amount of mead or willing, female companions are doing any good in stopping the dreams or his insides quivering with barely suppressed need to stalk to his brother’s chamber and put an end to this torture once and for all.

But he stops himself every time.

His brother can turn lie into truth and truth into lie with effortless ease, and Thor fears to trust his own memories of that night. But the questions remain, taunting him with possibilities, mocking his doubts and fears. Was that wretched game just a particularly cruel Loki’s jest? Or was that tiny flicker of want he saw in Loki’s eyes real, and not merely a figment of his fevered dreams and heart’s desires?

Thor has faced many foes in his life, but this one, this sickness of his heart, is the most formidable yet. He does not know how to face it, how to fight it. He is not even certain he wishes to fight against it.

But he knows he cannot simply do nothing. This will not pass on its own, like a momentary lunacy or mead induced fever dream, it has taken root inside his heart and it seems to grow stronger with each Thor’s breath, with every beat of his heart. He needs to put an end to it, but he knows not how. For the first time in his life he is allowing fear to guide him, hoping beyond hope that his heart will heal and he will once again be able to look at Loki and not ache for things that are forbidden to him.

Thor opens his eyes, disgust and guilt already settling in the pit of his belly as he stares at the mess on his hand and stomach.

Thor grits his teeth, and gets up, heading for the baths. At least this he can wash away with ease. Make the evidence of his shame disappear.

But that will do nothing in relieving him of the shame. Or the yearning.

***

Thor grinds to a halt as he enters the small, private dining hall, reserved solely for the royal family. He had not expected to find anyone present. Especially not his younger brother.

Loki’s eyes flick toward him, a small, knowing smirk curving at his lips, one eyebrow arched mockingly. “Another eventful night, brother?” Loki asks, the false sweetness of his voice making

Thor’s lips press tight together even as a wave of heat ripples through him. It is maddening, this slowly blurring line between his dreams and reality which makes him believe that he knows the taste of Loki’s skin and the way his hair, always slicked back with careful precision feels between Thor’s fingers as he tugs on it, exposing Loki’s neck for his greedy mouth.

Thor swallows, his own smile feeble and thin as he finally forces his legs to move.

“I did not expect to see you here at this hour, Loki.” Thor answers, ignoring Loki’s taunt, taking up his seat. He dismisses the servant when she appears, opting for serving himself. He needs a distraction, a means to occupy himself while gathering his shaken calm. It is laughable – and Loki would be the first to mock him to no end for it – that he would march into Jotunheim if need called for it and do it with a smile, but the unexpected sight of his brother turns him into a fumbling, frightened boy.

That damnable smirk widens as Loki leans back, his eyes resting on Thor’s face with careful consideration. It is truly frightening that Thor counts it as victory to be able to return Loki’s gaze without flinching. “And why is that?” Loki counters. “Perhaps I too have had an eventful night.”

Thor’s fingers freeze over the tray with fruit, images of Loki locked in an embrace with a shadowy figure assaulting his mind. He glances away from his brother’s penetrating gaze, busying himself with filling his plate with food. He recognizes the snarling beast in his chest as jealousy, but forces himself to stay deaf to its angry roars. He has no claim over Loki. He _cannot_ have a claim in this matters. Not as a brother, and especially as a lover.

“I am glad for you, brother.” Thor says, somewhat taken aback how easily the lie slips past his lips. But, perhaps, it is not truly a lie. His madness aside, his brother has always held his heart in his hands and Thor has never wished him anything but happiness. “You have been wretchedly gloomy as of late.”

Loki’s forehead creases into a frown for a brief moment, making him look almost unsure, but he masks it quickly with an amused snort. “Have you heard of hypocrisy, Thor?”

“Have _you_ heard of exaggerating?” 

“So you have not been awful to be around lately?” Loki says slowly, still watching Thor with sort of unwavering attention which makes Thor feel stripped bare, almost as if Loki can see right through his feeble act of normalcy and down to what he so desperately wants to hide. “Either skulking around like a moody child or glaring murder at anyone in your vicinity? Not to mention you seem to be spending almost every night at local taverns.”

“It is hardly your place to tell me how I should spend my free time, Loki.” Thor snaps, his fingers closing into a fist.

Eyes narrowed into a glare, Loki straightens, shoulders tensing. He looks ready for a fight. Thor feels relieved. They have been arguing a lot lately – over simple, inconsequential things – and in most cases, after either he or Loki stormed off, Thor found himself at a loss as to how the argument began in the first place. But now he yearns for one. It will chase Loki away and make him keep his distance at least for a time. Time Thor desperately needs to rein himself in.

But the look in Loki’s eyes softens into something borderline wistful, the smirk turning into a hesitant smile and when Loki tilts his head, regarding Thor with open affection, all Thor can see is his younger brother, guilt and ache and _love_ forcing all air from Thor’s lungs. For one terrifying moment, Thor is certain he will suffocate from the weight of them.

“Can I not worry about you, Thor?” Loki asks, softly, and Thor already has the words of an apology on the tip of his tongue. He swallows them down, each feeling like a jagged shard of glass, tearing his throat open. “I _am_ your brother.”

He forces his fingers to unclench and he reaches after the goblet placed on the table. He tips the goblet in Loki’s direction. “I am tempted to believe the sincerity of your statement.” Thor says, grinning. “But recently, every time you assured me of your concern, I have found myself facing embarrassment not long after. Coincidence, brother?”

For a moment – brief, fleeting moment – Loki looks genuinely hurt, but in the space between two heartbeats, his expression becomes closed off, his lips turning up into a smirk.

“I cannot tell whether I like this newfound wariness of yours, Thor, or should I feel offended by it.”

“That depends.” Thor says, and this comes natural to him, despite the lingering heaviness settled in his chest. Have they always been trying to one up the other and Thor only recently became aware of it? Or is this competition, this need to rise above the other’s challenge, something new?

Loki arches an eyebrow. “On what?”

“On whether or not you were sincere.” Thor says bluntly, and brings the goblet to his lips, dawning its content. 

The wine flows smoothly down his throat – rich, heady and sweet, but with a hint of bitterness, not all that different from his younger sibling – and even if Thor prefers mead, he welcomes the heat.

When he puts down the goblet, Loki is still keeping his silence, his eyes resting on Thor’s face. It is easier now to return his brother’s gaze, but the notion of either staying away from Loki or keeping up pretense when in his company makes Thor’s insides twist into a knot. It is not who he is. Masks and games and lies are not weapons he knows how to use well. Or even wishes to.

Abruptly, Loki rises to his feet. Thor follows his brother’s approach with a weary caution, Loki’s steps slow and measured as he saunters to where Thor sits, leaning down to whisper into Thor’s ear.

“A word of advice, brother.” Loki says, voice low and husky. Thor is not entirely certain how, but he manages to stay still and not flinch away from the heat of his brother’s breath against his face. Or to turn and drag Loki down into his lap and shut that wicked mouth with his own. “Mead is very poor advisor. Usually, it only invites new problems.” Thor draws in a sharp hiss of breath when Loki leans even further, bracing himself on Thor’s shoulders, his lips brushing against Thor’s jaw. “I have thought you braver, brother.”

Thor’s control snaps, his frustrations and pent-up lust breaking down the wall Thor has built around his own deviant desires.

With a low growl, he rises to his feet, his chair flying backwards, only to clatter to the ground with a loud bang which barely penetrates through the rush of blood in Thor’s ears, his vision sparking bright red.

When he regains a minimum of control, he becomes aware of the lithe body pressed against his, of his fingers digging deep into the soft leather of his brother’s coat, no doubt leaving bruises on the skin beneath. The thought fills him with wild, possessive satisfaction, but it evaporates quickly, turning to cold and heavy weight of self-disgust and agitation at the sight of Loki’s triumphant smirk. Much like the one he wore on the night of the feast.

Thor pulls his hands away hastily and steps back, his face contorted into a pained grimace. “I am done playing your games, Loki.” He grits out.

“That is a pity.” Loki smirks, his eyes twinkling with dark amusement. “And you were just beginning to learn how to play.”

“If there is something you wish from me, Loki, then simply say it.” Thor demands, but his voice lacks the strength and heat, making his words more a desperate plea.

A look of incredulity passes over Loki’s features, followed by a short, sharp burst of laughter. “And you say I am the one playing games.” Loki says when his laughter quiets down, his lips curved in a mocking smile, but there is a brief flicker of hurt in his eyes. Thor wishes he could trust it, could trust his own heart which cannot forget the easy camaraderie and undisputed trust of their days of youth, but Loki has become a mystery to him, carefully guarding his thoughts and emotions. And now Thor cannot even trust himself anymore, not when it comes to his brother. “Sometimes I wonder who of the two of us is the bigger liar.”

Thor’s jaw twitches at the insult, but underneath the anger welling inside his throat, there is also shame, and it burns through him like poison.

Loki stays silent, waiting for Thor’s reply, the moment stretching until the silence becomes too heavy, full of unanswered questions and brimming with tension.

Surprisingly, Loki is the one to break it. He straightens, his expression shifting to his usual casual indifference.

“You remember the task father asked us to accomplish?”

Thor frowns, Loki’s question catching him by surprise. He does remember, some tedious work involving Asgard’s trade relations with Nidavellir.

“You said you were going to do it alone.” Thor says, slowly, but even before Loki’s lips stretch into that insufferable grin, Thor already knows where this conversation is going.

“I changed my mind.” Loki announces sweetly. Thor grits his teeth, stopping at least three curses from leaving his mouth. “Do not make that face, Thor, I have already covered two thirds of the material, you only need finish it.”

“This is petty and spiteful, Loki.”

“No, it is called duty, Thor.” Loki shrugs, his face blank, but the glint in his eyes speaks a different tale. “Ruling is not only about prancing around in your armour in front of adoring masses, or swinging that precious hammer of yours. You will be king one day, it is time you start acting like one.”

Too incensed to form a reply, Thor merely stays frozen to the spot, watching Loki turn and leave the dining hall. Once Loki is out of his sight, Thor turns and grabs the empty goblet from the table, throwing it at the nearest wall. It clatters to the ground, the sound ringing hollow in Thor’s ears, doing nothing to calm the storm raging inside his chest.

***

Thor rolls the goblet between his palms, staring at the golden liquid inside.

Loki – no matter the reason behind his words – was right. There is no answer for his troubles hidden at the bottom of a goblet. Only a brief reprieve of false joy, followed by a headache and foul mood the next day.

His eyes flick sideways, his eyes catching the gaze of the tavern wench, invitation clear in her eyes. He glances away, not missing the disappointment flashing in her eyes. Nor is the solution in sating his hunger with any willing companion. He can achieve physical release, but it is bitter and hollow pleasure, serving only to strengthen his yearning for the one person forbidden to him.

Loki – his cursed wretch of a younger brother.

And yet, despite the futility of it, here he is. But what is he to do? He has never faced a problem his strength could not solve, and when he had, he went to his brother for counsel.

A bitter, dark laughter tears from his throat.

And who is he to turn to now, when Loki is the core of his plight.

With a grimace, Thor rises the goblet to his lips, draining it in one long gulp.

Slamming the goblet down on the table, Thor pours himself another round, the large pitcher already more than half empty. Thor takes a glance of the tavern, seeking his maiden, finding her trying to capture the attention of a young man sitting alone at the table in the far corner, oblivious to all but the goblet in his hands. A small, amused smile plays across Thor’s face at the speed with which she abandons her pursuit the moment she notices Thor’s gaze.

Thor hides his grin behind the rim of his goblet, emptying its content. A pleasant wave of heat washes over him, his thoughts already calmer, his chest lighter. Oh, the ache and shame and helpless frustration will return in the morning, Thor knows it, but at least he will not dream again, dream of green eyes and wicked, smirking mouth.

Thor is already half-rising from his seat when the door to the tavern slams open, and familiar voices, loud and joyful in their laughter, fill the room.

For a moment, Thor wishes he could escape unnoticed, but that thought disappears quickly, followed by a pang of guilt, and he straightens, his lips stretching widely.

“My friends.” Thor calls, his voice rising even above Volstagg’s booming laughter. “Come, join me.”

Three faces turn in his direction, each a proof that this is not the first tavern they have visited this night.

“Bring me two pitchers of mead and a bottle of your best wine.” Thor orders, ignoring the scorn in her eyes as she turns and strides at toward the counter, turning to greet his friends.

Hogun greets him with a nod and Volstagg pulls him into a tight embrace.

Volstagg is still holding him in a tight embrace when the pretty tavern wench comes with a large tray, placing it down on the table with more force than necessary. Thor offers her a small smile of apology, but she ignores him, her eyes narrowed and head held high.

“You have become a recluse as your brother, Thor. We have hardly seen you since that feast.” Volstagg accuses good-naturedly, releasing Thor and sitting down next to Hogun and Fandral. Something shifts in Thor’s chest at the sight of Fandral’s smiling, relaxed face, a beast rising its head after being roused from sleep by the scent of prey. Thor ignores it, but it does not stop it from snarling in rage in the back of Thor’s mind. “Last time you were absent from our company this long, you were punished by working in the armory because of…” Volstagg pauses, frowning, then he turns to Fandral. “What was it? Come now, you are younger, help me out.”

“A scandal involving a noble from Alfheim and his ward.” Fandral obliges, a sly smirk flashing across his face. Thor’s fingers twitch involuntarily, an image flashing before his mind’s eye, but he shuts it down before it can fully form. “Am I correct, Thor?”

Thor chuckles, sitting down. “Aye.”

“How long did your sentence last that time?” Volstagg asks, filling his goblet with mead.

“Half a year.” Thor smiles. In truth, it was not a hardship. He had learned much about weapons during his punishment. Loki called it mockery of a punishment. “But I have no regrets.”

“If my memory of the maiden in question is even remotely close to the truth, neither would I.”

Hogun’s eyes flick toward Fandral, a small, barely-there smirk curving on his lips. “One day, Fandral, some jealous father or husband will show you the meaning of regret.”

Fandral merely shrugs, wide and completely unperturbed smile playing in his lips. “I fear only boredom, my friend.” He says, reaching after the wine. “Not jealous relatives.”

Thor’s smile fades, his fingers curling into a fist, Fandral’s words, however inadvertently, stinging like a slap to the face. He does not bother denying the nature of the feeling struggling to set itself free from the confines of Thor’s will. It is jealousy, vicious and fierce, taunting Thor with the truth of Fandral having tasted what Thor never shall. Save in his dreams.

“I’ve no idea who dared to anger you, Thor.” Volstagg states, rising his goblet in Thor’s direction. “But I would not wish to be in their place.”

Thor blinks, startled. He never bothered learning to mask his emotions. He never thought it necessary. Apparently, he was wrong about so many things.

“Fear not, my friend.” Thor says, leaning back in his seat, glancing pointedly toward the tavern wench. “Violence is far from my mind.”

Volstagg frowns, then follows Thor’s gaze with his own, shaking his head slightly. “You are almost as bad as our friend here.” Volstagg sighs, inclining his head toward Fandral. He pauses, a frown appearing on his forehead, soon to be replaced by a wide, taunting grin. “Or should I say worse. How long were you trying to charm that beauty from Vanaheim, only to have her stolen under your nose by our royal friend here?”

Thor feels a hot wave of shame flooding his chest. “I am truly sorry. I behaved dishonorably that night.”

Fandral merely shrugs. “There is no cause for an apology. The lady made her choice.” He says lightly. “I cannot blame her, if I were her, I would have also chosen a prince of Asgard instead of myself.”

“Why, Fandral, I believe this could be the first intelligent thing I have heard you say.” Volstagg says with mock surprise.

A loud explosion of laugher follows Volstagg’s words, and Thor finds himself joining in, but his joy is tainted, a shadow hanging over him even now, and, as he rises his goblet in salute with his friends, he wonders when his path diverged from the one he always envisioned himself on, leading him to where he finds himself now – lost and unsure, his future, always so clear to him, now covered in shadows and doubts.

***

It takes but a few sweet words Thor to coax forgiveness from the lovely tavern wench. They barely make it to her room above the tavern, clumsy and ungraceful in their hurry.

Thor takes her against a wall, still dressed, save his tunic, mead and his continued balancing on the very verge of despair and unfulfilled desire, make him less kind than he wishes to be. She does not seem to mind his forcefulness, her nails digging deep in the skin of his back, leaving bright streaks of pain in their wake.

His release is sudden and violent as their coupling, his grunt muffled by the soft skin of her neck.

Thor leaves the tavern with the first light of dawn, a dull, throbbing pain in his temples matching the one concentrated in the hollow of his chest; that last, parting kiss tasting like ash and regret in his mouth.

***

Thor runs into Sif in the open corridor connecting two wings of the palace. There is a moment of hesitation in her steps, but she shrugs it off quickly, passing Thor by with barest of nods.

A sigh falls from Thor’s lips, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. It would be amusing, were it not a constant source of aggravation since then, how many ill-conceived decisions he had made in a single night. All following on the heels of him saying yes to what should have been simple, innocent fun.

He should have known better. Perhaps he had known better, but the lure of Loki’s company, willingly offered, had been stronger than the voice of reason. It always seems to be.

“Sif.” Thor calls after her, the bright heat of shame now dulled to a cold and heavy weight of regret. “Wait.”

For a moment it looks as if she will ignore Thor’s call and continue on her way, and Thor knows it in his heart that it would be well within her right to do so, but she takes three more steps before she halts, her shoulders tensing as she turns and heads back.

“My Prince.” She says in lieu of a greeting.

“We have been friends for almost as long as I remember.” Thor says softly, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “And now you seek to call me by my title?”

“It is because of our friendship I am calling you thus.” She says, meeting his gaze steadily. “And not something worse.”

“I have deserved that.”

“Yes, you have.”

_And worse_ , remains unspoken.

“And forgiveness, my Lady?” Thor asks, a self-deprecating smile flickering across his lips. “What can I do to deserve it?”

A small, almost involuntary twitch of her lips gives Thor’s hope, even if her eyes stay hard.

“Time, Thor.” She says finally, her voice a touch softer. “And distance. At least until I can look at you again without wanting to knock you to the ground.”

Thor chuckles softly. “It would not be the first time.” 

“Perhaps, but now I wish it to hurt.” She says, bluntly, and the smile slips from Thor’s lips.

“I am sorry, Sif. Truly.” Thor says finally, his voice earnest. “I behaved dishonorably and carelessly.”

A grimaces passes across her face, her lips tightening briefly. “At Loki’s behest.”

Thor frowns, displeasure and denial twisting in the pit of his belly. It would be easy to place the blame on Loki. He had done it that night, angry and ashamed, but…

“Loki has no place in this.” He says, firmly. “My actions were my own, and so is the blame.”

Something flashes in her eyes – sadness? resignation? – softening her gaze.

“Your love for him does you credit, Thor.” She says, her voice tempered by a feeling Thor cannot identify. But is closely resembles pity. “But it also makes you blind.” 

Thor opens his mouth, a harsh reply ready on his tongue, but he swallows it back, opting for a much simpler truth. “Loki is my brother.” He says, a note of finality to his voice.

Sif sighs, and now there is no doubt in Thor’s mind about the nature of the sentiment in her eyes. It stings, sparking something akin to hurt inside him.

“Perhaps you should remind _him_ of that.”

With that, Sif turns and leaves, and this time, Thor does not attempt to stop her.

***

A loud curse falls from his lips, and only by some miracle does Thor refrain from flinging the table and all its content against the nearest shelf.

Loki did not lie when he said how much work he had done on compiling a brief summary of trading relations between Asgard and Nidavellir. What he, conveniently, neglected to mention is the fact most of information he went through was already filed in the central data base. Leaving Thor to deal with ancient texts before even Odin’s time. Half of the time Thor was wary of even touching the texts, afraid they will crumble to dust between his fingers. Even worse – and frustrating beyond words – was his utter lack of interest in reading about antiquated laws and political economy of a time so long past, it was nearing becoming a legend. Even in Asgard’s terms.

Rubbing his temples, Thor blinks, then frowns, another curse leaving his mouth at the realization he had been staring at a single line of text, completely forgetting what came prior.

“So you do know how to find the library.” An amused voice drifts from behind his back. Thor manages not to flinch, but his heart, foolishly, like he is some inexperienced boy, stutters in his chest, a surge of heat filling his veins. “Although, your knowledge of the proper etiquette is lacking.”

Thor grits his teeth, narrowing his eyes into a glare when his brother saunters into his field of vision, taking up the seat opposite to Thor.

“If you have come to mock me, Loki, I am warning you, I am not in the mood.” Thor forces through clenched teeth.

Loki blinks in confusion, his face a perfect picture of innocence. Thor clenches his jaw harder.

“Why would I mock you, brother?” Loki asks, voice honey-sweet. Thor’s hand curls into a fist almost of its own volition.

“You know damn well why.” Thor snaps, a low growl of frustration falling from his lips when he notices his fingers have closed around one of the texts. He uncurls his fingers, a sigh of relief leaving his lungs at the slightly ruffled, but otherwise undamaged state of the text.

Loki’s eyes flick toward the discarded text, then back to Thor’s face, beginnings of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Most of these texts are only remaining testament of times most have forgotten.” He offers lightly. “It makes them priceless.”

“If they are so damn valuable to you, why are you not the one dealing with the gibberish they have to offer?” Thor snaps, belatedly realizing it is exactly what Loki wants.

Anger flares within his chest at the sight of a triumphant smirk on Loki’s lips, but the anger is not directed at Loki.

“Have you slept through every speech about responsibilities and duties we were ever given?”

Thor snorts. “So this is all for my benefit? How generous of you, brother.”

“One day you will thank me.”

“For this?” Thor exclaims, bitterness heavy in his voice. “I cannot imagine why.”

“You cannot always get what you want, Thor. Not even you.” Loki says, tone even.

A sharp bark of laughter tears from Thor’s throat, Loki’s words cutting deep and striking too close to his heart.

A frown appears on Loki’s face, his usual indifference faltering. “Am I amusing you, Thor?”

“I have simpler tastes than you, brother.” Thor smiles. The frown on Loki’s face deepens, and for a moment he looks uncertain. “I seek joy alongside others, not in them.”

“Not according to the tales circulating Asgard for quite some time now.” Loki says, dryly, one eyebrow arched.

Thor bursts into laughter. “You have no decency, brother.”

“I am not the one who gave the incentive for the stories.” Loki shrugs. Then, cocking his head, he adds thoughtfully. “Although, I have always thought the one with half a dozen maidens was a bit too much.”

Thor chuckles, leaning back in his seat. In this moment, it takes little effort to pretend that all is well, that nothing has changed between them.

“My brother, ever the suspicious one.” Thor says, smiling.

Loki stays silent a moment, then a soft smile slowly stretches across his lips. “My brother, ever the arrogant one.” He says shaking his head lightly. The motion causes a single dark curl to fall across Loki’s forehead, and Thor sucks in a harsh breath, his fingers burning with the sudden need to tangle inside Loki’s hear and make a mess of it, to see it framing his brother’s face-

_… a dark curtain of hair, sweat-soaked and clinging to a pale neck, so soft under Thor’s fingers as he brushes the curls aside, his mouth seeking to taste the soft skin underneath._

And, just like that, the pretense shatters, the light teasing of the moment drowned in the sudden flood of longing, surging through Thor’s veins and heating up his blood.

He swallows hard, but he cannot draw his eyes from Loki’s face. He knows every line of it, but now Thor sees it with different eyes. His brother is beautiful – dark-haired and pale of skin, slender and lithe, so different from the usual paragon of masculine beauty in Asgard – and that is nothing new to Thor, but now he wants to keep that beauty only for himself, a vicious and fierce possessiveness inside him demanding of him to stake a claim, to leave a mark no one will dare to question.

“Thor, it is not polite to stare so openly.” Loki says slowly and carefully, his eyes resting on Thor’s with a guarded expression. “Not even at your brother.”

Thor blinks, his lips forming a thin smile, but he has no success in convincing his eyes to leave his brother’s face. Or, as it turns out, his mind to catch up with his mouth.

“I miss you.” Thor blurts out, the words falling from his lips without preamble but holding nothing but the truth.

A frustrated grimace flicks across Loki’s face.

“We have already had this conversation. Several times, in fact.” Loki says, his tone clipped. “You cannot miss that which is not lost.”

Thor knows he is stepping on a dangerous ground, with little to no chances of a positive outcome. But he never claimed to be wise.

“I miss my brother. The one who shared every adventure with me. Who made me laugh-” His voice cuts off, his throat closed tight around the words burning inside like hot coal. He swallows. Then does it again. “Are games and petty spite all that is left for us?”

Loki holds himself deathly still. A statue carved of marble and shadows – cold, silent, expressionless. Illusion breaks with a slow blink, the green of Loki’s eyes filling with something dark and furious.

“I am not the one playing games, _brother_.” Loki hisses, the last word coming out like an insult. “I am not the one lying to myself.”

Entire universe grinds to a halt, everything stilling save the rapid beat of Thor’s heart.

_If Loki knows… why is he even here? Is a confession of this madness of Thor’s heart what he seeks? To what end?_

A dozen upon dozen thoughts race through Thor’s mind, until they crystallize into one terrifying notion – to confess, to finally make an end to this constant agony of wanting what he cannot have. What he should not have.

Thor opens his mouth, words ready on his tongue-

A crash breaks the silence, Thor’s head instinctively jerking toward the source of the sound, his eyes taking in the sight of the old librarian crouching as he gathers the books scattered across the floor.

A shudder runs through him, his heart all but freezing in his chest at the realization how close he had come to making the biggest mistake in his life. How close to risking everything he holds dear.

Starting with his brother.

He closes his mouth, his fingers closing into a fist. A strange expression twists Loki’s features – part anger, part hurt and part disappointment, but it shifts into carefully constructed blankness quickly.

“Speaking of games, I have met Sif today.” Loki says, his tone light, almost bored, but his eyes are like twin daggers – sharp and cold. He leans forward, the chair scraping loud and shrill against the marble. “I swear to you, her glare could thaw Jotunheim.”

“I spoke with her today.” Thor says, almost reluctantly. Sun is spilling gold and bright through the high windows, and yet Thor suddenly feels cold.

“Oh?” Loki arches an eyebrow, the thin line of his lips gaining a cruel, malicious edge. “And did you explain to her how you were nothing but a poor, innocent victim, and I the cruel and capricious villain?”

Anger rises inside him, but it is but a faint flicker of the usual fire, tempered by hurt and sorrow.

“Were I to call you cruel it would not be a lie, Loki, but your fault does not erase mine.” Thor says. He pauses, holding Loki’s gaze steadily. He wonders, briefly, how they would seem to a stranger. Like brothers, or bitter foes? “There was a time when your games brought joy, not regret, anger and shame. More the fool I, for holding on to false hope.”

Loki straightens, the muscle in his jaw twitching faintly. Thor expects an outburst of fury, braces himself for it, but all Loki does is snort in disdain, rising to his feet.

“Ever the noble one.” His voice may be soft, but it is dripping with venom. He regards Thor with cold eyes, but ice burns too, much as fire does. He pauses, a wicked smile tugging his lips upwards. “Fandral had said something similar to me about my games that night.” He takes another pause and makes a step forward, leaning so he could bring his face to Thor’s level. Thor manages to keep still, but it takes all his will to do so, the heat of Loki’s breath on his face tearing at his feeble self-control, already struggling with the unwanted surge of jealousy at the mention of Fandral and that accursed feast. “And yet, despite knowing the truth, he participated. Quite enthusiastically, I might add.”

A low growl tears from Thor’s throat utterly against his will, his vision flashing red for a moment. But the moment ends as quickly as it came, and when his vision clears, Thor is alone, his brother gone, but the sound of his mocking laughter still lingers in the silence of the library.

***

Heimdall’s level gaze does not move from Thor’s face. “You are going alone, my prince?”

Thor grins. “You think I have something to fear in the wilderness of Alfheim?”

“One might say you need not leave your home and have a cause for fear.” Heimdall points out. Thor frowns, unsure whether a hint of a smile on the ever stoic Guardian’s face is true or a trick of light. “But that was not the purpose behind my words. It is not often you leave Asgard unaccompanied.”

Thor shifts uncomfortably under Heimdall’s ethereal gaze. Never before had he felt the weight of it as he does now. Annoyance flares inside him.

“I go as it pleases me.” Thor says bluntly, lifting his chin. Heimdall’s face stays impassionate, despite Thor’s tone. “Is Bifrost closed to me?”

“Save the direct order from your father or a threat to Asgard’s security, Bifrost will never be closed to you.” Heimdall says, his voice not changing in tone, but something in it makes Thor feel like a petulant, cruel child. Shame is not an emotion with which Thor had many dealings in his life. But ever since that damned feast, it has become his close companion.

Without another word, Heimdall closes the distance to the raised platform occupying the central place in the Observatory. The sword slides easily into its proper place and with a simple flick of his wrist, Heimdall twists its handle to the side.

Swallowing, Thor nods curtly, the Bifrost flaring to life in front of him in a multitude of colours. Thor waits a moment, then tightens his hold on the reins of his horse as he steps forward, the animal following obediently.

“I hope you will find that what you seek.”

Heimdall’s soft voice drifts over to Thor, rising above the bridge roaring to life, the words, no doubt said in good will, feeling like a twist of a knife in his side.

Perhaps he will find a moment of peace, a short reprieve from the ache inside his foolish heart, but, as Thor is slowly starting to realize, nothing will ever be as it once was.

They are drifting apart, Loki and him, they have, it seems, for a long time. Even without the sickness he carries in his blood, he is losing his brother, and he cannot understand why. Or how to make everything right again.

With a small, wistful smile curving on his lips, Thor enters the portal, a million of colors bursting around him and taking him far away.

***

Thor pats the horse’s back, dark hair damp beneath Thor’s palm.

“You did well, my friend.” Thor says, smiling. His breath is still coming in shallow pants, his pulse racing from the run, but his chest feels free of the constant weight of conflicting emotions of the last few weeks, his blood is thrumming with excitement, his every nerve-ending sizzling with heat.

He feels alive and free to breathe freely for the first time in what feels like an eternity. His mind clear of images of green eyes and pale skin.

The noble beast turns his head toward Thor, its brown eyes staring at Thor in what almost seems like kindness.

A laughter ripples through Thor’s chest, coming loud and carefree out his mouth at the way his horse nuzzles into his open palm. There is something immensely comforting in the unconditional loyalty only animals can offer. Unlike men, with their shifting interests and greedy hearts.

With one last pat, Thor ties the reins around the trunk of the sole tree, standing high and proud above the green grass, stretching miles and miles in every direction. He lifts his gaze toward the thick tangle of branches above his horse, certain it will provide a shelter, beginnings of a grin twisting at the corners of his lips.

What he means to do, he has not done in a long time, not since the first decades of receiving Mjölnir, arrogant and proud, unthinking of others, but he needs it now. Needs to feel something other than like he is trapped in quicksand, his struggles only dragging him deeper into the ground.

With Mjölnir in hand, Thor moves away from the tree, his steps easy and light. His eyes flick toward the sky – clear blue, with not a cloud in sight – his lips forming a wide, toothy grin.

Halting his steps, Thor starts to spin Mjölnir, faster and faster and faster, his eyes focused on the darkening sky above his head.

Once, a long time ago, Loki asked him how he does it – how he controls the storm – and Thor merely smiled and said: _“I do not control the storm, brother. I_ am _the storm.”_

Loki called him arrogant and boastful, but as much as he had said it to annoy Loki, it was also the truth. To Thor it always seemed as if the every storm he created started inside him, building and building until all that power and rage in its destructive force erupted out in the open, Mjölnir being its conduit.

Thunder roars close by, a flash of lightning following close on its heels, illuminating briefly dark grey sky above Thor. Wind is howling all around him, tearing at grass and forcing the air out of Thor’s lungs when the first drops of rain start pouring from the sky.

Thor allows Mjölnir to fall down on the soft grass, satisfied with the strength of the storm. Spreading his hands wide, Thor lifts his face toward the sky and closes his eyes, his laughter rising above the howling wind as he stands in the downpour.

***

Heimdall makes no comment when Thor steps out of the portal, once again back at home, even if his eyes linger briefly on Thor’s wet hair and clothes clinging to him like second skin.

Thor is almost out of the Observatory when he is stopped by a softly spoken question.

“Did you find what you sought?”

Thor stops, grin wide on his lips.

“Yes, I did.” He says, without turning around.

But even as the words leave his lips, a voice inside his head adds in barest of whispers.

_However briefly._


	2. Chapter 2

His fork scrapes the bottom of the plate, the noise shrill and jarring in the stifling silence of his mother’s salon.

His eyes flick up, meeting his mother’s gaze, amusement and worry making for a strange company in Frigga’s eyes.

Thor offers a smile; small, almost sheepish, which earns him a low, amused snort from his mother. But the third person in the room stays silent, much as he has been since the moment he took his seat opposite to Thor’s at the table.

Ever since his brief journey to Alfheim, Thor has hardly seen Loki. At first it was not intentional, at least not on his side, but as the days passed, the beast inside his heart calmed minutely, its snarls turning to a low whine, the bright heat of lust and hunger inside his blood replaced by a dull ache.

After a week, a small flicker of hope sparks to life inside Thor’s mind.

Perhaps his madness has a cure, an end. Perhaps it will pass, and even if the scars remain, he will learn to live with them. His heart is strong enough for that.

But a life without Loki in it is beyond his heart’s strength, and if a brief period of time away from Loki is the price he has to pay to, Thor will pay it gladly. 

He struggles with the urge, but in the end he caves, glancing from the corner of his eyes toward Loki. His brother is doing very much the same Thor has been doing since his arrival – chasing food across his plate, all the while avoiding eye contact with Thor, keeping conversation to simple sentences and curt nods.

Thor glances away, throat dry and his stomach twisting into knots. This is not how it is supposed to be. They are not meant to become strangers, brothers only in blood, but not sentiment, with fading memories tying their lives together. This is not right, Thor refuses to accept it. Ever since the first time he took his brother’s hand into his, Thor knew they will forever stand together – as friends, as shield-brothers.

Never, not in his worst nightmares, could he ever envision them being reduced to bitter silence and careful avoidance. But what can he do to make it right when he dreads to be in the same room alone with his brother, for the fear of giving into temptation. He dares not touch Loki, not with his heart tainted as it is, turning every touch, however innocent, into something warped and dirty, a stain on his soul, no amount of time and regret can cleanse.

Fingers of his right hand curl into a fist, the silver fork breaking in half in his grip.

He curses his own stupidity inwardly, carefully placing the broken fork next to his plate with half-eaten cake.

“My apologies, mother.” He offers, his smile thin and strained. “My mind appears to be elsewhere.”

A disdainful snort sounds from Loki. Thor’s eyes flick toward him, but find Loki very much in the same position as before – his posture stiff as he idly drags his own fork through the dark brown mush that was once his brother’s favorite cake. A frown creases Thor’s forehead, annoyance and hurt flaring inside his chest. So now he does not even merit a glance.

Their mother releases a long, exasperated sigh. Reluctantly, Thor drags his eyes away from Loki – distance may be the one thing that has helped in calming Thor’s desire, but that does not mean it has not come at a great cost – just in time to see Frigga make a small, sharp move with her hand, two pieces of the broken fork piecing themselves together again.

Thor reaches out and takes the once again whole fork, bringing it closer to his eyes. It looks perfect, like it never broke between Thor’s fingers. Magic, despite Thor’s lingering wariness toward it, certainly has its uses.

If only everything in life could be fixed as easily as the fork in his hand.

Placing the fork back on the table, Thor smiles. “A useful trick, that.”

“A necessity.” Frigga amends, arching an eyebrow. “Considering my sons.”

 _That_ elicits a response from Loki. He whips his head toward their mother, looking offended.

“Singular, mother, if you please.” Loki says, his voice dry. “I refuse to be put in the same category with a fumbling oaf.”

“Yes, Loki, you are the very embodiment of grace.” Thor bites back, before he can stop himself. Only moments ago, he ached for a simple word, a mere glance from Loki, and now, his fingers itch for a chance to silence that wicked and cruel mouth.

“Are you sure you even know the meaning of the word?”

“Why? Are you suggesting another game?” Thor sneers, aware how childish they must seem, but unable to bite back the words, something vicious and spiteful inside him urging him on. “I know how fond you are of those.”

Loki pales, his shoulders tensing, but before he has a chance to reply, their mother’s voice cuts through the air – soft, but demanding complete obedience.

“Boys, enough.” Loki’s mouth snaps shut, and Thor would find his chastened face amusing were he not aware that his face must be presenting a similar sight.

Frigga pauses, her gaze – somehow gentle and commanding at the same time – alternating between their faces, making Thor feel a hot flush of shame heating his cheeks.

“I could ask were you been fighting lately, but that would be redundant now, would it not?”

When they were children, when Loki only started learning magic, they were often caught doing what they should not have been doing – sometimes a small mischief, but more often than not it had been something graver – and always Loki would be the one to step forward, whether be it to offer an apology or an explanation, or, in most cases, an outright lie. So it is a force of habit that Thor’s head whips toward Loki’s face, waiting for his brother’s words. Words which stay trapped behind Loki’s tightly pressed lips, his gaze cold and hard like the frozen lakes of Jotunheim.

Thor blinks, and even if there was an answer he could offer their mother, he doubts he could force it through his throat, closed with hurt and disappointment. Thor is not even certain why Loki’s stubborn silence hurts more than what they were ready to scream to each other’s faces mere moments ago, were it not for their mother.

 _But_ , he wonders bitterly, _what does not hurt lately when it comes to Loki?_

“Well, at least you are united in silence.” Their mother says, only a hint of exasperation lacing her voice, after it becomes evident neither is willing to offer a semblance of an explanation. “Not a great comfort to a mother’s heart, but it is a start.”

“I am sorry, mother.” Thor says, his fingers reaching after his mother’s slender ones. It is a hollow comfort – an apology, but all Thor can offer now. He cannot offer her truth, no matter how he aches for her comforting hand and assurance, because the truth of his heart is too heavy a burden. Thor doubts Frigga would be repulsed by the taint of his love for Loki, and it is not fear of rejection or judgment which holds Thor back from baring his heart before his mother’s kind eyes. It is the misery with which he was living since the moment he realized the nature of his feelings for Loki. It is not something he would wish upon his greatest foe, let alone his mother.

A small, albeit sad, smile curves Frigga’s lips as she squeezes Thor’s fingers gently. Small gesture, but it soothes him like cool balm on a fevered skin.

“United?” Loki’s voice cuts through the peaceful moment, shattering it. Thor turns toward his brother, however reluctantly, the amount of disdain and bitterness in Loki’s voice sending a shiver of dread down his spine. “I have heard of that concept before. Many times.”

“You find it lacking?” Frigga asks, lightly, but there is steel underneath it, making Thor’s heart swell with love and pride for their mother. Loki may be able to turn tables on anyone with his words alone, but not their mother.

Loki’s eyes flick briefly toward Thor – angry and accusing – before returning toward Frigga.

“No, I find the ground it is based on lacking.” He says, his tone as light as their mother’s, but his posture is stiff and tense, his right hand clenched tightly. Thor swallows, his heart twisting in his chest in anticipation of a storm rolling on the horizon. One bigger and more devastating than any he has ever created. “A chance of birth, nothing more. I could have just as easily been the firstborn, or Thor could have had a sister.”

Frigga’s lips twitch, barely visible, a smirk, so similar to Loki’s own, passing over her features.

“And I could have been your father, were I a man.” She says, and Thor cannot help but grin, despite the growing heaviness in his chest. “Are we to speak of alternate realities where Norns have made a different decisions regarding our fates? Perhaps in one of them I am now sitting with my two sons and they are thanking their mother on a pleasant company and a fine meal. Perhaps they are even laughing.”

Loki stays silent one long moment, his face carefully blank.

“Perhaps. Perhaps the younger one is even content to stay in the shadow of the elder one. A pale shadow to make the other’s light shine even brighter.” Each word that falls from Loki’s lips is but another dagger aimed at Thor’s heart. Each reaching its target with cruel, merciless precision. “United, but never equal.”

Thor is on his feet before he is aware he made the decision of moving.

“That is a lie!” He exclaims, his voice shaking from anger and hurt alike. “I have never thought of you as anything but my equal.”

Loki turns his head toward Thor, slowly, almost reluctantly, the look in his eyes stilling all life inside Thor – heart, lungs, mind – all shutting down in front of the raw, unguarded fury in his brother’s eyes. Fury which is but a small step away from hate.

Slowly, as if any sudden, hurried move will shatter his composure, Loki rises to his feet, the smile on his face a vicious and ugly thing, entirely devoid of light and joy.

“Still lying to yourself, Thor? Or is it simply a matter of blind arrogance?”

“Loki, stop. You are hurting all now. Most of all yourself.”

Loki’s eyes widen, and for a brief moment there is something naked and vulnerable in his gaze, but the moment passes as if it never happened, Loki’s gaze closing off.

“I am sorry, mother, my manners seem to be lacking today.” He says, tone even and face expressionless. Leaning down he takes Frigga’s hand and brings it up to his lips. “Thank you for the pleasant company and a fine meal.”

“You are forgiven, you foolish boy.” Frigga whispers, her eyes brimming with tears. “But do not think we are not to have words.”

Loki nods, and without another word, turns and all but runs from the room.

The click of doors closing after Loki drags Thor out of his frozen state. He does not think, he moves forward, urged by blind panic that he is about to lose his brother for sins he cannot even remember, but he does not move far, stopped by an unyielding grip around his wrist.

“No, Thor.” His mother commands, her voice strong despite the paleness of her face. “If you follow after him now you will only make it worse.”

“ _Worse?!_ ” Thor exclaims with disbelief and an edge of despair, his voice but a soft whisper compared to the wild rush of blood in his ears. “How could it be worse?”

Using her grip on his wrist, Frigga rises gracefully from her seat. She smiles softly, but the smile does not reach her eyes

“He could be telling the truth.”

Thor stays momentarily stunned. “Mother, I swear to you, I-”

A soft press of fingers against his lips halts his fevered words. “I know, Thor, I know.” Gently, she wraps her hands around his shoulders. Thor allows it, his head falling against her shoulder. “I will make your stubborn brother accepts it as well. Even if I have to confine him to his quarters for the next century.”

A sound caught between a sob and a laugh tears from Thor’s mouth, muffled by the soft silk of his mother’s dress.

“You cannot confine Loki.” Thor says, the turmoil inside his chest calming under his mother’s gentle fingers, running soothingly through his hair. “He would escape, if for no other reason than to show us that he could.”

“You forget, Thor, every trick he knows he had learned from me.” She says, and Thor can hear the smirk on her lips. “And there are still a few tricks I have yet to show him.”

Thor laughs and closes his eyes, soaking in the warmth and comfort of his mother’s embrace, but there is a cold, leaden weight of guilt and shame nestled firmly in the hollow of his chest which refuses to budge, clinging to Thor’s heart and dragging him down, ever down.

***

Sighing, Thor leans more comfortably against the marble edge of the pool, closing his eyes and allowing the warm water to soothe his aching muscles, his thoughts, predictably, drifting toward their favorite destination – Loki.

After the disaster of their last meeting, Thor does not see his brother for five days – not even in passing – but his shadow clings to Thor’s thoughts every second of every day.

He does not seek comfort and distraction in drinks and a willing, warm body anymore. Instead he opts for physical exhaustion, spending all his free time in training grounds, pushing himself until his muscles burn with exhaustion and every breath feels like a slice of a knife. And then pushes himself even more.

And all the while, Thor remembers, rifling through memories of games and studies, of joy and laughter, of their joint adventures. But also of insults and stubborn, petulant silences, of their rivalry and fights. He sees himself more than once bearing the brunt of Loki’s jokes, and he sees Loki staring at him with hurt in his eyes as he accused him of trickery and cheating.

They have hurt each other many times in the past, and even if he sees some of his words in a different, crueler light now, Thor has never thought of Loki as anything but his equal. 

So how can he make amends for something which exists only in Loki’s mind?

It is the eve of the fifth day since that question became the focal point of his thoughts, and he finds himself not an inch closer to uncovering the answer.

With a sigh, Thor rises from the pool, water still dripping down his naked body as he crosses over to the small shelf and picks up one of the towels. He dries his body and dresses only in his breeches, not bothering with the tunic.

He is tired, both in mind and body, and the thought of lying down onto his bed and drifting into a, hopefully, dreamless sleep, makes him hasten his steps, but he only makes three steps when he enters his sleeping chamber before freezing in place. Thor blinks, for one brief, surreal moment unsure whether the sight before him is real or a figment of his imagination.

But then the figure lying on his bed moves, dark head lifting toward him, a small, soft smile greeting Thor.

“You have been avoiding me, Thor.” Loki says, not a trace of malice or cruelty in his eyes.

Thor swallows hard, his eyes drinking in the sight of his brother – bare-footed, dressed only in dark breeches and green tunic, his hair falling in soft curls down his face.

Thor clenches his jaw hard, stopping a howl of impotent rage from leaving his throat. The sight of his brother lying on his bed, bathed in the half-light, is like someone has entered Thor’s dreams and played a cruel joke on him, taunting him with what he cannot have.

Thor’s fingers tighten around the tunic in his hand, his pulse picking up speed as his traitorous body starts to respond to the alluring sight in front of him.

“That was not my intent.” Thor rasps. He feels like a fool, and he must also look like one, but after five days without seeing his brother, the sight of Loki, especially like this, circumvents all Thor’s higher brain functions, leaving him at the mercy of his baser instincts, all demanding only one thing – take.

A part of him – feral and selfish, with pulse which beats along the noise of warm drums and anguished cries of his foes as thunder roars in the distance – wants to claim Loki as his own, just this one time, even if it shatters all hope of mending what is broken between them. Wants it with an intensity which drives all air out of Thor’s lungs, leaving him feeling light-headed and reckless, like he has had too much mead.

Laughter, light, melodic and care-free, so unlike Loki’s usual sardonic laughter, breaks through the haze of lust, sounding all alarms inside Thor’s mind.

“If you are so determined to lie, brother, you should at least make an effort to learn to do so.”

“Of the two of us in this room, Loki, only one is a liar. And it is not I.”

Loki merely grins, his unusually bright eyes are twinkling with mischief and something Thor cannot name, but it makes his already erratic heartbeat speed up even more.

“Another lie, but better this time. Said with more conviction.” Loki says and makes himself more comfortable against the headboard of Thor’s bed, cocking his head to the side. The move exposes the pale column of his neck, making it a struggle for Thor to keep his eyes fixed on Loki’s face without drifting down. “Perhaps you can be taught something.”

Thor frowns. Something is not right here. Loki’s behavior – especially considering the last time they saw each other – seems odd, completely out of character. He could be acting, although for what reason, Thor cannot even begin to divine, but something inside Thor is certain it is not the case this time.

But whatever is the case, Thor cannot deal with it. Not here. Not now. Not while Loki looks like _that_. Not while his fingers itch to tangle into the dark curls of his brother’s hair and-

“Why are you here, Loki?” Thor sighs, forcing the images of Loki’s arched neck as Thor licks a wet stripe from his jaw down to his collarbone to the back of his mind. He desperately wishes he could shut his eyes and open them in another time where everything is as it once was. But wishing has never solved anything.

“Now I need a reason to visit my brother?” Loki asks, a small giggle falling from his lips as he shifts away from the headboard, and down the bed, rising into a kneeling position, a playful smile curving his lips up. “Do you wish me to leave?”

Thor swallows a groan, his entire body one giant ache. He should say yes. He desperately wishes to say yes, no matter the consequences. But he cannot.

A low growl of fury and helpless, desperate frustration leaves his lips and he moves toward Loki, his fists tightly clenched.

“What do you want of me?” Thor demands, angry, hurt and confused. Loki’s face is close, almost close enough to touch, looking young and vulnerable, his eyes wide and glinting in the low light of the Thor’s bedchamber. This is what Thor has been dreaming of since the night of the feast. This is what Thor has feared since the night of the feast. “My sanity? My blood? Apology? What, Loki? What have I done to you to lead us to where we are now?”

Loki’s smile widens, turns sultry, as he cocks his head to the side, his gaze slowly travelling down the expanse of Thor’s naked chest and then back up toward his face. Thor sucks in a harsh breath, his breathing turning into shallow pants.

“I could tell you what I want from you, but that would be no fun at all.” Loki smiles as he rises from the bed and closes the distance between them in three slow steps. Panic flares to life inside Thor’s already tumultuous chest. But even if he wanted to flee, he could not make his feet to move, frozen still as is the rest of his body, only his heart live and beating wildly against his chest. Loki comes to stand in front of him, still smiling softly, eyes glinting with promises Thor wishes he could believe. His brother looks like an image from his dreams, but alive and warm, and so, so close. All Thor needs is reach out. “I will do something better.”

Loki’s touch is soft as his fingers glide slowly up Thor’s upper arms and shoulders, pausing briefly on the pulse point in Thor’s neck, only to tangle in the still wet hair on the nape of his neck.

Thor stays still, deathly so, afraid to move or even breathe with Loki so damnably close, his scent filling Thor’s nostrils. Thor can see the edge of an abyss in the open invitation in Loki’s eyes, his will crumbling underneath all the sensations invading his already aching body.

Loki smiles and draws closer, his breath warm and sweet smelling against Thor’s face. A sound – a whimper or a sob – breaks the silence and Thor finds himself startled by the fact it came out of his mouth.

“I will do whatever _you_ wish of _me_ , Thor.” Loki offers in a low voice which goes straight to Thor’s groin, a shudder shaking his entire body. He bites down on his lower lip, the taste of copper filling his mouth, his eyes drawn to the wide, wicked curve of his brother’s lips so close to his own. “All you need is ask it of me.”

Thor’s hands move of their own volition, his fingers wrapping around his brother’s upper arms, but to push him away or pull his close, not even Thor knows it. He draws in a shuddering breath, inhaling the sweet, somewhat familiar scent of Loki’s breath. And then the reality crashes all around him as the realization dawns.

Loki is drunk.

His appearance, his behavior, none of it real, but simply another game spurred by wine and who knows what wicked intent of Loki’s mind.

A sharp bark of laugher rises inside Thor’s throat but stays wedged there, choking him with disappointment and relief in equal measure. He leans his forehead against Loki’s and closes his eyes, caught between wanting to laugh with elation and howl in anguish.

In the end Thor does neither, he simply waits until his breathing calms and he is certain his voice will not break, selfishly soaking in the warmth and scent of Loki’s body, aware this is to be his only chance.

Finally, reluctantly, Thor opens his eyes and draws back slightly so he could look his brother in the eyes. Eyes which show so much emotions, none real, none true.

“I do wish something from you, brother.” Thor smiles and takes a step back, Loki’s expression turning into that of petulant confusion, his fingers, up until that moment running through Thor’s hair, stilling abruptly, but not pulling away. Taking a deep breath, Thor says evenly, his voice not wavering in the slightest: “I wish you to go to your room and go to sleep.”

Loki’s body goes very, very still, his eyes flashing with raw, naked ache and hurt which look terribly, terrifyingly real. The moment of silence stretches until it becomes almost unbearable, threatening to bury them both under its weigh. It shatters when a low, mirthless chuckle falls from his brother’s lips.

Loki looks lucid now, his eyes clear and hard, completely impassionate. But he does not make a move to get away, his fingers still tangled in Thor’s hair.

“If that is your wish, _brother_.” Loki says, and Thor cannot stop himself from flinching at the way the word brother slips from Loki’s lips – like an insult. He pauses, considering Thor’s face, then, ever so slowly, he leans forward, his lips brushing against the shell of Thor’s ear as he whispers softly, each word dripping with venom: “But remember this moment, Thor, for I will never repeat my offer. You have my word on that.”

Then he pulls away abruptly, his lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Sleep well, brother.”

Loki says nothing after that, he merely turns and leaves Thor’s bedchamber which suddenly seems empty and cold.

Thor is not sure how long he had been standing rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed staring at nothing, his chest feeling like an open wound. He crosses the space to his bed and lies down as if in a dream, and shuts his eyes, Loki’s scent still clinging to the covers.

With a furious howl, Thor rises from the bed and tugs the covers off, ripping the soft silk in his haste and anger, and throws them across the room, a small piece of red fabric still hanging from his closed fist.

Broken laughter falls from Thor’s lips and he sinks down onto his knees, clutching the torn piece of fabric to his chest, as he slowly becomes aware that there is no cure for his sickness.

Only more pain.

***

The wood splinters, almost breaking in half under the force of Thor’s blow, sending the guard staggering back.

Thor does not wait for the man to recover, but whirls around, and with a single, well aimed blow to the back of the guard’s knee, forces the man to the ground. Using the momentum, he spins his staff, the end of it stopping mere inches from the guard’s exposed throat.

The guard swallows, his gaze travelling up the length of the staff pointed at his throat until it reaches Thor’s eyes.

“And now you are dead.” Thor announces bluntly. Taking a step back, he lowers his staff, turning his back on the guard, but not before he sees a flash of shame in the man’s eyes.

Thor strides over to the weapon’s rack, aware of the looks following him, but ignoring them. They are warriors, and he is their prince and captain, not a nursemaid. Returning the staff back to its proper place, Thor stands one moment undecided on which weapon to take next.

“That was needlessly cruel.”

A small smirk flashes across Thor’s face. He half-expects Sif to make good on what she told him the last time they spoke.

“And how many times you have done the same?” Thor asks, turning to meet Sif’s gaze, one eyebrow arched. “Even to me?”

“There is a difference between a friendly spar and callous cruelty.”

“Not to show him how much he yet has to learn would be cruel.” Thor states, his voice steady. “Better humiliated today than dead tomorrow.”

Sif’s eyes flare with annoyance, her lips thinning into an angry line.

“I see someone who is in need of a lesson.” She grates, glaring at Thor.

Thor turns and picks up two staffs, offering one to Sif. “You did say you wanted to knock me down on the ground.”

She opens her mouth, but does not say anything, her gaze drawn to something behind Thor’s back. Thor turns just in time to see Fandral and Volstagg coming their way, similar expression of amusement and slight wonder on their faces.

Sif releases a huff of exasperation at their approach and shoots Thor another dirty look. “Perhaps these fools will aid you. Norns willing, you just might knock each other out.”

“She is in a mood.” Volstagg states, following Sif’s departure with raised eyebrows, then, inclining his head toward the group of sullen guards, standing to the side of the large ring as if they are chastened children not Asgard’s warriors. “And it seems so are you. What troubles you, Thor?”

“Nothing troubles me, my friend.” Thor says with a low chuckle. Then, his lips turning up into a smirk, he offers the staff still in his hand to Volstagg. “But I am in need of an exercise.”

Volstagg’s face draws into a frown for a second, then he raises his hands, his face apologetic. “I would be more than happy to indulge you, but I must decline. I have been feeling ill these last few days, so I fear I would not be much of a challenge, but I’m certain Fandral would be more than happy to oblige.”

“I have no choice now, do I? Hogun is not present.” Fandral says, stepping forward, his fingers going toward the clasps of his cape. He sounds more amused than anything else, but there is a flesh of wariness in his eyes. “It would reflect poorly on our group were I too to decline our prince’s challenge.”

Volstagg merely grins, taking Fandral’s cape.

“But you are paying me drinks the entire month, Volstagg.” Fandral warns, but his eyes stay on Thor “And I mean to drink much. And expensive.”

Thor chuckles and throws the staff to Fandral, turning and heading toward the center of the ring.

“Ready?” Thor asks when Fandral takes his place opposite to him in the ring.

“I suppose we shall see soon enough.” Fandral quips, but his smirk does not reach his eyes – alert and cautious.

Thor grins – wide and baring his teeth – and without a preamble he attacks. Fandral sidesteps his blow, easily, moving out of Thor’s reach, not trying to land a blow of his own.

“I thought we are to fight, not dance.”

Fandral grins, unperturbed. “Whatever keeps me in the safe distance from getting pummeled.”

Thor’s grin widens, blood already singing with the thrill of the fight. He feigns an attack toward Fandral’s collarbone, his staff swinging harshly down, toward Fandral’s knees, but Fandral reads his intent, blocking his hit and even landing one of his own, while, once again, stepping away quickly.

Thor chuckles, and nods in appreciation, Fandral shrugs and quirks a grin, but his eyes stay sharp and focused on the staff in Thor’s hands. They have sparred often, even if Volstagg and Sif with their manner of fighting agreed more with Thor’s own style, which, despite his vast knowledge of weapons and fighting techniques, was marked by his superior strength. Fandral’s style, relying more on speed and agility, and precise, but lethal strikes, was more like his brother’s…

_Loki._

Thor cannot tell how or why it happens, but it does. Is it the breaking point he was heading toward since the moment he agreed to Loki’s game or a moment of madness, Thor does not know, but it happens; like a storm in the middle of a hot summer day – sudden, fierce and devastating in its rage.

One moment he is standing in the broad daylight, sun warm against his back, making his hair stick to the nape of his neck. He feels light, his blood buzzing with the excitement of a fight, and the next, he is hiding in shadows, his eyes fixed on the sight of his brother and his friend – their chests touching, Loki’s hand resting against the side of Fandral’s face in a gesture which speaks of gentleness, Fandral’s fingers closed possessively over Loki’s upper arm – kissing.

Memories flood Thor’s mind, blurring the lines between the past and present, scattering the few remaining tendrils of Thor’s self-control like fallen leaves in the wind.

Thor did not think Loki would go through with the challenge. Not when he all but laughed to Thor’s face, not when he sauntered over to where Fandral sat, not even when he coaxed Fandral into joining him on the balcony. No matter what his brother did, no matter how feeble his own reasoning seemed, Thor was certain Loki will not kiss Fandral, not as himself, at least. But Loki did, and Thor, skulking in the dark like a thief, found himself unable to move, his body as if made entirely out of lead, but on the inside… on the inside, he was howling with fury, his blood burning with indignation at Fandral’s conduct, his fingers itching to tear Fandral to pieces for daring to touch what was _his_.

That night, mortification and shame came quickly, burying the rage and bloodlust deep, deep into the darkest crevices of Thor’s heart, before Thor could – would? – recognize and name the feeling wreaking havoc inside his chest.

He knows its name now, recognizes its bitter and dark origins, and this time, he does not try to deny it is jealousy he feels, nor does he try to stifle the urge to hurt the man before him, now reduced to nothing more than a dark figure against the bright red tint of his vision.

An angry snarl, more a sound an animal would make than a human throat, echoes loudly inside his ears. A distant, small part of him realizes, belatedly, it came from him, and then even that distant part flickers and shuts down, and all that remains is fury and bloodlust surging through his veins like liquid fire, as he moves forward and toward his prey.

Pain – startling and unexpected – is what drags him back to reason; distant sounds of alarm and an urgent cry of his name slowly break through the rush of blood in his ears, the red tint of his fury slowly receding from his vision. When his vision finally clears, his thoughts still sluggish and unfocused, gradually he becomes aware he is kneeling in the dirt of the training ring, strong hands wrapped around his middle, holding him tight, almost bruising.

Thor blinks, his panting breaths calming as he cranes his head and meets Volstagg’s gaze over his shoulder – red with exertion, a look of cautious relief and uncertainty, etched onto his features. There is another kneeling beside Volstagg, one of the guards, keeping a hold on his left shoulder and securing his hand behind his back.

 _What has he_ done?

“Thor?”

Whipping his head toward the voice, Thor looks up into Sif’s eyes – weary and worried, her stance still tense, the staff in her hands still half-risen, ready to strike if need be – but then his gaze slips past Sif, his breath turning to ice in his lungs.

Fandral is half-lying, half-sitting on the ground behind Sif, a large bruise on his right cheek, his face contorted into a pained grimace as he cradles his right hand close to his chest.

Thor tries to swallow around the lump of horror and shame lodged in his throat when his eyes flick down, toward his right hand, his fingers still wrapped around a half of a broken staff.

Releasing his hold on the broken piece of wood, Thor shuts his eyes and lowers his head, his entire body sagging in the combined hold of two men, hysterical laughter building inside his chest as a thought occurs to him – unbidden and wholly inappropriate given the circumstances.

_Sif did get what she wished for in the end._

***

“Are you feeling well?”

Thor’s head snaps up, his lips turning up into a bitter curve. “I am not the one injured.”

Sif’s face stays serious. “That is not an answer to my question.”

Thor presses the heel of his hand against his forehead. Memories – hazy and fragmented – of what has occurred between him and Fandral in the training grounds play in continuous loop before his mind’s eye, filling him with shame and regret.

“No, I am not about to fall into a berserk rage.” Thor says. _Not again_.

They are in one of the adjoining rooms in the healing quarters – Thor sitting on the ground, leaning against one of the cots, his right knee drawn to his chest, while Sif stands next to the doors, looking grim.

“Men will not talk.” She says after a moment of silence. “You need not worry about rumors being spread around Asgard.”

Shame twists low in his belly. “Rumors? About their prince losing himself to bloodlust? I would not call them rumors after what I have done.”

Sif purses her lips. “You lost control, Thor, but it was hardly berserkergang. Were it so, Fandral’s broken arm would be the least of Asgard’s worries.” She says bluntly, her tone somewhat softened by the shadow of worry still lingering in her eyes. “No matter what you might think of yourself at times, you’re but a man, Thor. Flawed and fallible.”

Thor grimaces, her words igniting a spark of anger inside him, but it flickers and fades quickly, leaving only a taste of ash inside his mouth. Lowering his head, Thor shuts his eyes. He is flawed and fallible, more so than he has ever thought possible. Loki often accused him of selfishness and arrogance, of reckless impulsiveness, but never before had Thor been faced with his shortcomings as he is in this moment. 

A soft knock breaks the silence, but Thor does not move from his spot. He does not even lift his head. He is weary, but it is weariness of spirit, not body, which clings to him as leaden weight.

“Here, drink this.” Sif offers after a few moments.

Thor opens his eyes and lifts his head, however reluctantly. He eyes the small goblet in her outstretched hand with caution. “You are certain this is wise?”

Thor has rarely doubted himself – only fleetingly and concerning matters of great importance – but ever since the feast the steady ground he has been walking on his entire life has turned into a winding maze, and he is utterly, miserably _lost_.

“I have seen you drink enough mead to fill a small pool and walk away without stumbling. This is but a drop in the ocean.” She notes, a barely there note of amusement breaking through her solemn tone. “Now drink.”

Grudgingly, Thor takes the offered goblet, frowning at its content. The liquid is clear as water and has no smell – not the sweetness of mead or the sharpness of ale. He hesitates a moment, then dawns the entire content. The liquid flows smoothly down his throat – cool as ice, but leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

Thor looks up at Sif, and, silently, holds up the goblet. She refills it without a word, then, when Thor dawns it again in one long gulp, relishing the burn it leaves as an aftertaste, takes up a seat next to Thor down on the ground.

“Dwarven?” Thor asks, setting the goblet aside.

“Midgardian.” She corrects. Thor’s eyebrows rise in question, eliciting a small smile from her. “They _do_ have some uses.”

Thor sighs, his body relaxing, the heat from the drink slowly spreading through his bloodstream. “I have not visited Midgard… I cannot even remember in how long.” He drags his fingers through his hair, a faint smile flashing across his face as he recalls the adoration and prayers, shrines and sacrifices in his name. A simple game of an arrogant, brash boy and it touched the lives of so many.

“Probably for the best.” She says, but there is a glint of amusement in her eyes. “You were not exactly temperate when you visited.”

“If I recall correctly, _you_ enjoyed yourself greatly. And Loki-” Thor breaks off. A rush of memories, old and almost forgotten, overtakes him, filling his mind with images of Loki, in the guise of an old man, spreading tales of Thor’s ferocity and power, a fearsome and terrible god, raining lightning upon his enemies. It amused him then, but now Thor cannot help but wonder how much of it Loki had said and thought true.

“Does Loki have anything with what has happened today?” Sif asks after a moment of silence, only a hint of hesitation in her voice.

Thor whips his head toward her, his heart clenching uncomfortably in his chest. “Cannot I take credit for my own foolishness? Why bring Loki’s name into it?”

“Because I know you, Thor. And I know him, and you both have been behaving odd since that feast.”

Thor glances away, swallowing uncomfortably. It would be a relief to unburden his mind and soul, but some burdens cannot be shared with others. They must be borne in solitude and silence.

“Why do you always think the worst of Loki?” Thor asks, his voice more sad than offended. He pauses a moment, the words heavy on his tongue. “Sometimes it seems as if you see him as a foe, not a friend.”

“I see your brother as he is.” Sif answers, without a moment of hesitation. Thor’s heart sinks a little. Some of what he feels must be showing on his face because Sif’s expression softens somewhat. “I do not think him a villain, Thor, but he is not a kind man, Thor. He is often deliberately cruel, his tongue sharper than his daggers.” Pausing, Sif’s lips thin into a straight line. “He always sees that which others try to hide, and he uses it. As a taunt or a weapon, it matters little to him.”

Thor’s head lowers as if dragged down by a heavy weight. Thor wishes to counter Sif but he cannot deny there is truth to her words. Truth he has only recently started to uncover. But there is an even bigger truth, possibly the only one that matters anymore.

“He is my brother.” Thor says, his voice barely above a whisper, but steady and firm. “And I love him.”

“As you have already claimed.” Rising to her feet, Sif offers Thor a small smile which does not reach her eyes. “But I do wonder sometimes do you even know him.”

Thor parts his lips – denial hot and urgent on the tip of his tongue – but the words refuse to leave his mouth. After a moment, Thor shuts his mouth and looks away, the words turning to ash in his mouth.

***

“I am truly sorry for my behavior.” Thor says simply, because there is nothing else to say, his eyes fixed on his friend’s face, gauging his reaction. A distant, darker part of him laughs at his own misery. He, who lived without regret for centuries, now is drowning in it. 

Fandral is half sitting and half lying on one of the cots, his right arm immobilized against his bare chest. He is regarding Thor with caution, but there is not a trace of open hostility or fright in his eyes.

The moment of silence drags on, Fandral seemingly content with regarding Thor thoughtfully. Thor entertains the notion of leaving, but decides against it. It would be cowardice to leave without giving Fandral a chance to speak his mind. Whether be it to curse him or offer a hope of forgiveness.

At long last, Fandral’s expression shifts, his lips forming a rakish grin. “No need for that Thor.” He says lightly. Thor blinks, cautiously optimistic. “Perhaps, if all goes well, I will be the one indebted to _you_.”

Thor rises his eyebrows in question, dismayed.

Fandral chuckles, and waves Thor closer. Thor obeys, even if his steps are not as sure as usual. When Thor closes the distance between them, stopping at the end of the cot. Fandral’s grin widens, his tone turning low. “There is one maiden here, Eir’s apprentice. I’m rather vexed to admit my charms have gotten me nowhere with her. She has been rather adamant in ignoring me for quite some time.” Fandral announces. “But now she is assigned to tend to my injury. She can hardly ignore me now.”

Thor blinks. “Fandral, I broke your arm.”

“A small price to pay for the joy of her company.”

Thor cannot help himself, he bursts into incredulous laughter. “You, my friend, are incorrigible.”

Fandral shrugs, a small grimace of pain flicking across his face, freezing the smile on Thor’s lips. Fandral notices the change in the air, because his features soften, a small sigh leaving his lips.

“I do forgive you, Thor.” Fandral says, his face growing serious. “And if it is all the same to you, I would leave this unfortunate incident behind us, but I would have an answer from you.”

Thor swallows, a sense of dread creeping up his spine, but he meets Fandral’s gaze steadily. “Ask, and I shall give you the answer.”

“Do you know what has transpired between your brother and myself on the night of the feast?” Fandral asks, lightly, conversationally, but the look in his eyes is almost grim.

Thor does not want to answer that question. He does not want to recall that night, nor discuss Loki with Fandral. But he has given his word, and even if he had not, he owes Fandral.

“Yes, I do.” He says, his voice completely, carefully blank.

Fandral’s expression draws into a grimace, his eyes fluttering shut briefly.

“Whatever Loki might have told you, I want you to know it was consensual.” Fandral says, a note of urgency lacing his words.

The knot of jealousy tightens in Thor’s chest, the words tumbling from his lips before he has a chance to stop them. “Do you… do you feel for him?”

Fandral’s eyes widen for a fraction of a moment, but the startled expression soon morphs into that of relief. “Norns, no.” He says. Thor frowns at the depth of elation in his voice, feeling almost offended. Fandral notices it, rising his left hand in a placating manner. “I mean this not as an insult to Loki. But to love him-” Fandral pauses, an unusually solemn expression drawn across his features. “It would be a trial even for the most steadfast of hearts.”

Thor almost winces, Fandral’s words touching a still bleeding wound on his own heart.

“Then why..?”

“Temptation, I suppose. Lure of the forbidden.” Fandral says, looking almost ashamed. “I knew it was a mistake, for more than one reason, and yet…” Fandral shrugs. “Perhaps, in some way, I owe _you_ an apology.”

Thor’s mouth curve into a self-deprecating smile. “You owe me nothing. Loki is-” Thor trails off, the words catching in his throat like splinters of glass. He swallows hard. “Free to choose his own path in life.”

_Even if it leads him away from me._

***

Loki is the last person Thor expects to see standing in the narrow corridor separating two rows of healing chambers.

“Loki.” Thor breathes, frowning, his heart skipping a beat, but is it out of joy or dread, Thor cannot decide. “What are you doing here?”

Loki moves closer, and the cold fury in his eyes tells Thor all he needs to know.

“Exactly the same as you.” He says, his voice cold and harsh. “Although for different reasons, I would assume.”

“How did you find out?” Thor asks after a moment of silence.

Loki’s lips curl with disdain. “Worried about your shining image, Thor?” He sneers. “You need not. I found about your recent idiocy quite by accident. Volstagg is terrible at keeping any secret. Especially one of this magnitude.”

Thor straightens his shoulders, refusing to glance away from the angry accusation in his brother’s eyes. “I will leave you to tend to your affairs.” Thor says and moves to leave, unwilling to start another quarrel with Loki. He has no strength for it. Not in this moment.

Thor does not make it far, stopped by Loki’s hand against his chest. He could shake it off, easily, but he does not, his eyes following the path of Loki’s leather clad arm toward his shoulder, and, finally, his face.

“You may have father’s favour and adoration of everyone in Asgard, Thor.” Loki says, bitterness and resentment clear in his voice. “But do not mistake _me_ for your property. You have no claim over me.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at Thor’s lips. “I know.” He says, because there is nothing left to say. Because he is tired of fighting against the truth.

Loki’s face draws into a frown, uncertainty flickering across his features.

Thor looks pointedly at Loki’s hand, fingers still splayed open against Thor’s chest. Loki pulls his hand away and steps back, allowing Thor to pass him by. Thor does it, without another word, and as he strides away he can feel his brother’s gaze on his back, every cell in his body screaming at him to turn.

Thor does not.

***

Thor glances at his mother’s face from the corner of his eye, but finds her expression relaxed and smiling as they stroll leisurely through the palace gardens.

A dozen questions are burning on the tip of his tongue, but every time Thor opens his mouth to ask one, he finds himself unable to force the words past his lips, dreading the answer.

A low, melodious laugh startles him out of his thoughts. Thoughts which are, predictably, featuring his brother and the stubborn silence they have erected between them since Thor’s meltdown in the training grounds.

Blinking, Thor smiles apologetically. “I am sorry mother, I-”

“…have not been listening.” Frigga finishes instead of him, but there is no recrimination in her eyes, only fondness and mild amusement. “I _have_ noticed.”

Thor chuckles and brings her hand up to his lips. “I will accept any penance you deem is appropriate.”

Frigga sighs in exasperation. “You are incorrigible.” She says, but she cannot hold off a smile from curving on her lips. She pauses, growing serious, then stops abruptly. Thor frowns, following her gaze toward the tallest tree in the garden, stretching high above all others. “You fell from that tree a long time ago. Do you remember?”

Thor does remember. But the memories of the fall are hazy and splintered. What he does remember is waking in one of the healing chambers, to the sight of his brother’s dark head nestled against his side, his small fingers wrapped around Thor’s larger ones.

“I remember little.” Thor offers with a shrug. “It happened a long time ago. It ended well, though.”

“It did not look that way at first. The healers were not able to wake you and we all feared you will not recover wholly unscathed. Your father was utterly useless. That man can rule the realms with an iron fist, but when it comes to emotions…” Frigga pauses, glancing significantly at Thor. “You have taken after him in that regard. But, back then, it was your brother who turned out to be the biggest problem.”

“Loki?” Thor frowns, incredulous. “But he was but a boy then. What could he possibly have done?”

Frigga’s lips turn up slightly. “He refused to move from your side and he threatened Eir when she tried to make him leave. And then he was caught trying to steal a book on healing magic.” Frigga says, her voice soft. “And all that happened in but a few hours after your fall.”

Thor blinks, trying to imagine Loki, still a boy, defying his elders and risking punishment all because of him. His heart clenches painfully as dull, throbbing ache fills his chest.

“That was a long time ago.” Thor says, his voice thick with bitterness and sadness alike.

Frigga turns to face him, cocking her head to the side as she studies Thor’s face intently. “You think were it to happen today, Loki would act differently?”

“You saw how he was. You heard what he said.” Thor says, his voice sounding odd to his own ears – thin and frail, like that of a child.

Frigga smiles, cupping Thor’s face with her right hand. “You silly child. The only difference between now and then would be that Loki would not allow himself to be caught.”

Thor grimaces. “I am beginning to believe Loki has endless amount of ire reserved just for me.” Thor forces through gritted teeth. “And I do not know what I have done to provoke it.”

Frigga studies him one moment, then she pulls her hand away from Thor’s face, opting for taking his hand instead. “Walk with me.” She says and Thor obeys.

“Your first word, much to my annoyance I must admit, had been father.” Frigga says after a few moments of silence. Thor frowns, surprised by the non sequitur, but he stays silent. His mother smiles, glancing at him with mock scorn. “Do you wish to know what your brother’s was?”

Thor nods slowly, his eyes fixed on his mother’s face, the hint of a smirk on the corners of her mouth so similar to Loki’s it hurts.

“Your name.” Frigga says simply, her eyebrows arched pointedly.

“We were close when we were children.” Thor says, his attempt at a smile failing miserably.

“So you do not love your brother now, Thor?”

“Of course I love him.” Thor exclaims hotly, halting his steps. “You _know_ I do.”

“You think Loki does not feel the same?”

Thor hesitates, unable to answer. He has ever thought Loki’s love as something natural, like sunset or dawn, but now, faced with a direct question, he becomes startlingly aware of the truth of Sif’s statement. He may love Loki – too much, with passion surpassing that of kin – but he cannot recall the last time they talked. Without taunts and games. Without anger and bitterness.

Frigga sighs. “Three brilliant men in my family, and all can be such fools at times.”

“Your brother loves you, Thor, but it is difficult to be a younger brother of someone who shines as brightly as you do.”

Thor frowns, incredulous. “But Loki has grown into a fine warrior in his own right. And he has ever been the smarter of the two of us.”

Frigga smiles, her fingers squeezing Thor’s gently. “Perhaps I am not the one you should be saying this. Don’t you agree?”

Thor shakes his head, glancing down at their joined fingers, his chest feeling lighter than it had been in a long time. He has been a fool, this entire time. He has tried all he could think of to repair his relationship with his brother and wrestle his lust for Loki under control.

All he could think of, save what he should have done in the first place.

***

Thor hesitates a moment before placing his hand on the door leading to Loki’s chambers. He still has a vivid recollection of the first time the wards set on Loki’s chambers have denied him access.

But it is not fear of physical pain which stays his hand.

Taking a deep breath, Thor pushes the doors open, half-expecting to be thrown against the opposite wall as it were the case the last time he and Loki were at odds. But the polished wood yields to his touch and, with a long exhale, Thor steps into his brother’s chambers.

And finds them empty.

Disappointment twists inside his chest as he stands rooted to the spot, his eyes taking in the familiar sight of his brother’s private chambers – heavy furniture bathed in the sunlight coming from the large open balcony windows, green and gold dominating over the interior.

Thor takes a deep breath, a small smile flickering across his lips. Loki’s chambers still smell the same – like leather, ink and something fresh and cool Thor has always related to Loki.

Sighing, Thor turns to leave when his eyes catch on the sight of Loki’s writing desk, his lips curving into a smile of their own volition. It is a mess, as usual, a stark contrast to the immaculate state of the rest of his brother’s chambers.

Following an impulse, Thor strides over toward it, his fingers gliding slowly over the scattered papers, opened books and a stoppered vial filled with liquid of the rather disturbing shade of green. He does not disturb the chaotic mess in front of him, knowing Loki will – somehow, inexplicably – know it, until a flash of red draws his attention, a distant memory stirring in the back of his mind.

Thor eyes it a moment, then, foregoing caution, fishes it from under the folded stack of yellowing parchment, his eyes widening in surprise when he recognizes the object in his hand as his, albeit thought lost and forgotten a long time ago.

It is a red gemstone, polished to perfection, its oval shape barely the size of half of Thor’s palm. A flicker of a smile passes across Thor’s face, his thumb brushing lightly against the smooth surface. He cannot recall receiving the stone in great detail, only a faint memory of his brother’s eyes, alight with excitement and pride still lingers, but he can recall so many occasions when he had used the stone to silently communicate with his brother under the watchful eyes of their tutors, oblivious to the glowing runes flickering across the stone’s surface.

A flicker of warmth flares inside Thor’s chest. He had thought the stone lost, but he had thought wrong. It was never lost, nor misplaced, merely stolen. By the very same person who had given him the stone in the first place. As to why, Thor cannot claim to understand. Although, Loki _is_ petty enough to take back what he has once freely given in a fit of anger. But, it matters not, not when Loki has kept it all this time instead of destroying it.

A thought occurs to Thor, his hands already busy with rifling through the content of Loki’s desk. It does not take him long to find that what he seeks – the stone’s twin. Exactly the same size and shape as Thor’s stone, only this one the colour of leaves in spring.

Closing his eyes, Thor tightens his fingers around the red stone, remembering the enchantment Loki placed on the stones. He needs only to think a thought and it should appear on the other stone, but when he opens his eyes, the surface of the green stone stays unchanged, there are no glowing runes flickering across it.

Frowning, Thor tries again, and again, but with the same result. Perhaps the enchantment has worn off, or he has forgotten some vital part. It has been a long time since he last held the stone in his hand. Deciding to make one final attempt, Thor envisions a different thought, a sigh falling from his lips when the green stone flickers with light, the runes flaring brightly to life.

Shaking his head, Thor places the stones back on Loki’s desk, a wistful smile playing on his lips. It seems his brother had managed to place a rather impressive enchantment on two gemstones when he was barely more than a child, and turn them into a form of silent communication and source of laughter for them, but failed to enchant the stones to convey something as simple as regret.

 _Perhaps he never thought it necessary_.

Thor is already half way to the door when he turns and walks back toward Loki’s desk. He eyes the gemstones, his fingers hovering indecisively over them.

When Thor finally leaves his brother’s chambers, only one gemstone remains lying among the scattered papers of Loki’s desk – the red one.

***

Loki’s visit does not come as a surprise. His first words even less so.

“You have something of mine.”

Thor lifts his eyes from the scattered notes lying about the floor around him and slowly puts away the roll of parchment he has been studying for the last hour or so.

Loki is standing only a feet away, dressed casually, his figure outlined by the last rays of sunlight spilling from the opened windows behind him. His face does not betray any emotion, save, perhaps, a shadow of amusement, but Thor feels a faint hope blooming in his chest.

“How do you even know if something is missing from that chaos you call your writing desk?” Thor smiles. A low ache flickers and fades in the pit of his belly as Loki cocks his head, a hint of a smile flickering across his face for a moment.

“There is nothing wrong with little chaos.” Loki shrugs, then, to Thor’s surprise, his brother takes a seat on the floor next to him, their shoulders almost touching. “It can even be somewhat… entertaining.”

Thor snorts. “I believe you have omitted the part where _you_ are the one orchestrating said chaos.”

Loki throws him a glance from the corner of his eyes, neither denying nor agreeing. _The wretch._ But he is here, and he is not spitting insults or looking at Thor as if he thirsts for his blood. He is simply here. Because Thor called him here. Not a victory yet, but a possibility of one.

“I was a fool.” The words leave Thor’s lips in a rush of breath. Loki’s fingers still momentarily over one of Thor’s notes, but otherwise he remains silent, turning to face Thor, his face betraying nothing. Thor swallows a snort. Of course Loki will not make this easy for him. He would not be Thor’s contrary younger brother were it not so. “I- I took too many things for granted.” Thor pauses. He did not prepare the words. He thought about what he should say, if Loki came to seek him out, but he was never one for speeches, apologies even less. “I was arrogant and blind, thinking nothing has changed since we were children. Thinking we have remained the same.”

Thor falls silent, glancing at Loki with hope, but finds his face impassive.

“You can stop me any time you deem it necessary.” Thor says, chancing a small smile.

Loki arches an eyebrow. “Why should I? You have not made as many truthful claims in a long time. It would be a shame to stop you now.”

Thor frowns, searches Loki’s face, finding a faint trace of amusement in the curve of his lips. The tight knot of anxiety in his chest unfurls minutely, but the ache inside remains.

“I made mistakes, yes. And if I ever were cruel and inconsiderate, it was never intentional. I never wanted to see you hurt, Loki. By anyone, least of all myself.” He swallows, hard, his throat feeling raw and tender, like freshly healed wound. “I only ever wanted to love you.”

_Too much, now. Far, far too much._

A small crack appears in the carefully constructed façade of his brother’s face – uncertainty, caution and yearning flaring to life beneath the blank surface. Thor wants nothing more than reach out and pull his brother close, wrap his arms around his shoulders or curl his fingers into the soft hairs on the nape of Loki’s neck. He wants it so much, it becomes almost a physical sensation. He resist the urge, though. It is still too early for that. He still cannot trust himself with his brother’s proximity. Not until the lust lessens and only love remains.

“You loathe when your faults are pointed out, you snarl and rage, and yet you admit them freely.” Loki says, each word a slow drag of a knife against Thor’s heart. But the cautious way Loki studies his face, as if seeking for a lie, for a trap, hurts infinitely more. “Why now?”

“You think my pride is worth more to me than my own brother?” Thor asks, voice heavy with sadness. He had made mistakes, yes, but this? How did they come to this? “I might have been blind in the past, but I never lied to you, Loki.” 

Loki’s gaze flicks to the side. The rustling of parchment draws Thor’s gaze away from Loki’s pale face, drags it down. He blinks, slowly, his breath leaving his lips in a harsh exhale.

 _Shaking_. Loki’s fingers are shaking, tightened in a white-knuckled grip around a folded sheet of parchment. The shaking spreads, turns into a full bodied shudder. Thor’s hand moves, but stops before it can reach Loki’s elbow, before-

Thor takes a deep breath, allows his hand to fall down, fingers curling into fist. Waits. It strains his control to the point of breaking, every cell inside him rebelling against it. He is not built for inaction and waiting. But all his strength and power are of no use to him now. He already said all he could, bared his soul – leaving only that dark, forbidden place hidden, as much for Loki’s sake as his own – now it is Loki’s turn.

Thor grits his teeth, breathes, measuring the silence by the rapid beat of his heart. He is nearing four hundred when Loki finally moves, but not to turn his gaze back at Thor. Not to smile or sneer at him.

Thor frowns, his heart caught between hope and despair as he watches his brother move his hand over the books lying on the floor, green light flickering around his fingers.

“Here.” Loki says, his face calm, as if nothing has happened. As if Thor’s words meant nothing. But there is a new light – fond, amused, even tender – in the green eyes holding Thor’s gaze with effortless ease. Thor opens his mouth, but remains silent – questions stay locked inside his throat, alongside his breath. A smile curves on Loki’s lips – only a hint of sardonic amusement to it – as he looks pointedly down, toward a sheet of parchment lying on the palm of his hand. “You should take this.”

“What is it?” Thor asks, but even as his lips form the question, his fingers are already closing around Loki’s offering. Trusting Loki blindly is dangerous, Thor knows it, there are too many sharp edges to his brother now, but, despite everything, Thor’s first instinct will always remain the same – belief that his brother will forever stand beside him. In need and joy alike. 

“All you need to finish the report for father.”

“What have I done to deserve this?” His voice comes out steady despite the turmoil inside his chest, his gaze holding Loki’s unflinchingly.

Loki flashes him a mischievous grin as he rises to his feet, shrugs. “Perhaps you are not the only one at fault for the bad blood between us, Thor.”

“Perhaps?” Thor repeats softly, one eyebrow arched. This is the closest to an apology he will ever come with Loki, but he does not need the words in this moment, not from his silver-tongued little brother. That small, almost involuntary twitch of Loki’s lips and the sheet of parchment in Thor’s hand are enough for now.

“Perhaps.” Loki nods, making the gesture seem like that of a king granting mercy to his wayward subject. Thor stifles a chuckle, the ache inside his chest lessening further. It will not disappear entirely, perhaps not even when Thor deems himself strong enough to once again touch his brother without wanting more than an innocent, brotherly caress, he is not as foolishly optimistic to hope for that. But he will welcome the chance to breathe without feeling like his chest might collapse in on itself. “Sleep well, brother.”

Thor nods, smiles. “You too, Loki.”

Loki is almost at the door when Thor recalls something and rises to his feet. “Loki.” He calls after his brother.

Loki turns, looks at Thor expectantly. “Yes?”

“Are you not forgetting something?”

“I do not believe so.”

Thor grins, fishing the gemstone out of his pocket, the green gem glinting with soft light on Thor’s outstretched palm.

Loki looks at the gem, then, ever so slowly, he rises his gaze toward Thor’s eyes. “Keep it.” He says, his voice barely above a whisper. The look in his eyes makes him seem – as ridiculous as it sounds, even in the privacy of Thor’s own mind – both younger and older than he is. Thor’s grin falters, then, gradually, slips from his face. “I always did prefer the other one.”

Thor remains standing still, his gaze fixed on the spot his brother occupied, long after Loki leaves his chambers, his fingers curled tightly around the stone, trying to recall did happiness always feel so similar to pain.


End file.
